Don't Make My Mistakes Yours
by YaelaTheWordsmith
Summary: Midoriya is reckless, everyone and their uncle knows it, but Aizawa Shouta could have given him a run for his money a handful of years ago. How Yamada Hizashi had knocked sense into him then, and how Shota tries to do the same with Shinsou now. Oneshot.


A/N: The image of Present Mic casually helping Aizawa with the eyedrops popped into my head and somehow turned into 2000 words. Yeesh.

Uh, profanity warning.

Hope you enjoy!

 **XXX**

Shota sinks down onto the bench, knowing he's more clumsy than careful, but without the energy to care. Hizashi stands ramrod straight in front of him - his directional speaker is cracked, and his left sleeve is charred, as are the ends of his hair. His arms are crossed, one foot is tapping restlessly, and there is absolutely no trace of a smile on his face.

Shota briefly wishes he cared less about that fact.

The police officer who had escorted them to the room - an overpolite constable called Tsukauchi, not much older than them - bows nervously and darts a quick look between them before hurrying out. The click when the door closes is the loudest sound Shota has heard all day.

Hizashi takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, fingers digging into his arms. "God, okay. What the absolute hell happened today? What the hell was that, Shota?"

"A mistake," Shota says, half mumble and half sigh.

"Yeah, no shit . You're supposed to be the smart one of the both of us, goddammit it -"

Shota's mouth quirks at one corner. "I am."

"Not after today, you're not."

Shota shrugs.

Hizashi's breath hisses between his teeth, and he turns on his heel, striding away from him and back again. Shota watches him tiredly.

"You don't have to - I'm fine now, Hizashi. Nothing bad happened -"

Hizashi's eyes flash. "Yeah, your forearm breaking in five places, your ribs in three - just another day in the life of AIzawa Shota? Fuck, if Tensei hadn't -"  
And it's only then that Shota's sluggish brain completely grasps the extent of how furious Hizashi is, because as one of the youngest radio jockeys on air he always, always guards his tongue, every second of every day.

" - caught the distress call, hadn't alerted -"

"The agency?" Shota interrupts. "How did they -"

"Old man Kawanishi's royally pissed off, of course. Tanaka will cover for you, as far as he can, but he'll probably want to strip the license from you for at least a month. What else did you expect?"

" . . . goddamn it."

"Seriously, what the hell else did you expect? You not only embarrassed them by getting tangled up in something that needed All Might, fucking All Might to step in, you hid it from them until it almost blew the city up, until you almost got yourself killed sneaking around, until you took on ten people at once and not one, not two, but four of them had Mutation Class Quirks you couldn't erase, of all the - stupid doesn't even begin to cover -"

"I know."

"Then look more sorry about it, asshole!"

"Hizashi." Shota straightens a little, wincing when his back screams in protest, and tries to sound as placating as he can. "I'm fine . I could have been hurt, I know, but I wasn't. We took down one of the largest criminal circles in Japan, isn't that an achievement? Tensei did so well, I heard he'll be getting a medal of commendation, and you -"

"Who gives a fuck about that?!" It's almost a scream, and for a second Shota thinks Hizashi is going to shake him by the collar. "How - I can't even - were you always so reckless ? Do you even understand the danger you were in? Listen to me -"

"Hizashi, can we please not do this now? Later, when I'm not -" Shota's breath catches in his lungs, and he struggles not to cough.

Hizashi shouts right over him. "No, I'm going to make you get this, I'm going to drive it into your thick skull, and I'm going to do it right now, okay? You don't get a choice!"

"I do understand, I -"

"You don't!"

"I do -"

" If I hadn't been there - "

"But you were, weren't you!"

The room is quiet apart from Shota's laboured breathing. Hizashi seems to be at a loss for words for a moment. They stare at each other, the tension that had been building like an angry thunderstorm suddenly muted, turned into an gently anxious string thrumming between them.

Shota looks away and breathes out, long and slow. "You were. You always have been."

Hizashi stares at him for a minute more, and then sits on the bench beside him, slumping over his knees. "Shota, you asshole," he mumbles. "I hate you."

Shota tilts his head back, closing his eyes against the harsh white light. "Thank you for saving me, Hizashi."

"Shut up."

"Mmm."

"Don't you ever scare me like that again." Hizashi's voice cracks, just a little; it happens when he overuses his quirk sometimes, but of course that's not it. Not this time. All he can say is the first thing that came to mind when he finally had the chance to see Hizashi after the battle.

"I'm . . . sorry your speaker got broken."

The reply is swift, dismissive. "That's not a yes."

Shota sighs and slips a hand into a pocket, fishing out the small bottle of eyedrops. "I'll do my best."

"Still not good enough."

"It's all I can promise." He flips the cap open, trying to ignore how his hands are shaking, and lifts it to his eyes. "I'll be a lot more careful from now on. You can trust that."

"Can I?"

He knows Hizashi has lifted his head, but he stares at the ceiling, brushing away the drops that landed on his cheek before trying again. "You can."

"If you - oh, for fucks sake."

Hizashi gets up and stands in front of him, holding a hand out impatiently. Shota sighs again, but tosses him the bottle, and Hizashi positions it above Shota's eye like he's done it a dozen times before - which he has.

His fingertips are rough on Shota's cheek, on his eyebrow, and they still smell faintly of smoke.

"Don't make me say this to you again," Hizashi says matter-of-factly, moving to the other eye as Shota blinks away the mild sting. "I can't always be there. Neither can Tensei, or Nemuri, or Shinji, or anyone. And even when we are, we might not be able to look out for you."

Shota frowns a little at this. Hizashi stares right back, snapping the bottle shut. "Don't give me that, don't say you don't need us to, because that's what happened today, isn't it?"

It is, and Shota can't deny it. He squeezes his eyes shut and rests them in his hands, all his exhaustion and pain and just everything crashing over him in a wave.

There's a pause, and then a quiet clink when the bottle is set down. An arms curls carefully around Shota's shoulders, holding him uncomfortably tight, and a hand buries itself in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I'll stop nagging you," Hizashi mumbles into the top of his head. "Just know that you owe me a heck ton of cake for like, my next ten birthdays for doing that to me."

A choked laugh claws its way out of Shota's throat. He manages to get one arm up far enough to wrap loosely around Hizashi's waist.

"I'm sorry," he says, his eyes stinging harder now. The words come out more helpless than he had intended, and are muffled against Hizashi's shirt. He almost thinks he won't hear.

But he feels the last of the tension sink out of Hizashi's body, who bends into Shota -

(like warmth and forgiveness and a friend Shota doesn't deserve)

\- for a long, soft moment before he straightens up. His eyes are suspiciously bright, but his grin is back in place and unwavering as he holds a hand out.

"Come on, Eraserhead. Let's go get you some ice cream before your license is revoked and your mother grounds you for the next year. Raspberry sorbet?"

"Calling sorbet ice cream is sacrilege," Shota says, deadpan and swallowing a yelp as he's pulled to his feet. "But yes, there's nothing a cold dessert can't fix."

"Yeah, apart from important things like bones -"

They leave the room bickering, and Shota has never been so happy to be annoyed by Yamada Hizashi in his life.

 **XXX**

" - inexcusable," Shota growls. "Your license is revoked for six weeks -"

"Aizawa-sensei! That's not -"

"Don't tell me it's not fair, Shinsou. It's not fair to get yourself into situations where your allies are forced to save your goddamn life at the risk of their own either, and you did just that. Now shut up, or it will become eight weeks."

Shinsou presses his lips together, looking mutinous. Ojiro fidgets with his fingers, staring at the floor, and Kaminari is biting at his lips nervously.

"You two, you did a good job saving your teammate. I'm reasonably sure awards are on the way, but if they aren't remember you definitely deserve them. You can leave. Rest up, get back to full health."

"Yessir," they mumble. Shota nods in dismissal, and they hurry out the door. He doesn't miss how Kaminari's fingers brush across Shinsou's sleeve briefly, nor how Ojiro's tail thumps him softly across the knees.

He pinches the bridge of his nose when the door closes, and sighs. There's silence for a good five minutes before Hizashi clears his throat softly from where he's standing behind Shota.

"Yeah," he mutters. "Shinsou . . ."

Didn't I teach you better than this? What were you thinking? Can I count on you to be safe next time?

" . . . you're lucky."

Shinsou is still glaring, but at least he's listening. Shota matches his gaze evenly.

"You're lucky to be alive. You're lucky that your friends were around to save you. And you're lucky that they're kind enough, that they care enough not to punch you in the face for scaring them like that."

Hizashi hums softly. Shota takes good care he doesn't so much as glance in his direction.

"There are people who care about you. People who will not be okay if you're gone. Being a hero is about risk, yes, but you owe yourself a certain amount of care so that you're still around to save people tomorrow. And I'm fully aware that none of what I'm saying is probably getting into your head because you're too busy glaring at me. So you're going to talk to Kaminari and Ojiro and ask them how they felt when they saw you with blood pouring down your face. You're going to talk to Midoriya, and ask him how and why he obtained a sense of self-preservation. God, if he can, I would have expected -" Shota cuts himself off and starts again. "That's not important. Go rest, and don't forget what I'm telling you. And - I'mnot done yet, Shinsou, do not walk away from me !"

Shinsou clenches his jaw, but stops, and Shota stands up, leaning over the desk in a way he knows is menacing.

"If," he says, slow and clear, "you ever make me worry about you like that again, I will kill you, and then find someone with a resurrection quirk to bring you back just for the pleasure of doing so again, slower. I trust you to be smarter than this, and you will not break that trust again. You will not break my trust again. Am I understood?"

The boy's eyes are suddenly glassier than before - his hands unclench, his mouth quivers, just a little. Shota holds his gaze for one long moment more before sitting back down.

"Dismissed."

He's out of the door in a second. Shota slumps in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. It's way too early in the day for all this.

There's a light touch on his shoulder. "Somehow it's always the underground heroes who pull these kinds of stunts, isn't it?"

"Crawl into hell and die," Shota mutters into his hands.

Hizashi's laugh floats behind him as he leaves, silvery and teasing, and the last thing Shota hears him say is 'My birthday's next week, Shota, don't forget the cake!'

Shota wants to scream, punch someone, and sleep for three days straight all at once.

Well, at least Nemuri can help with the last one. He heads off to find her, wondering, for what must be the thousandth time, why he ever elected to be a teacher

 **XXX**

A/N: We all know you love it, Aizawa, quit whining.

Feedback is very much appreciated ^.^


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